


come morning light

by dormir



Category: Love Live! School Idol Project
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Genderbending, Hospitals, Incredibly AU, amateurishpileofcrap.txt, like what?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 16:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2857754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormir/pseuds/dormir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was aware of how heavy a heart is, and she was aware of how some reflexes are acquired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come morning light

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. I don't even. 
> 
> An incredibly random idea of Maki as a 33-years-old neurosurgeon and male!Umi (Umiyoshi, for the lack of better name) as a 34-years-old cardiothoracic surgeon working in a same hospital and experiencing lulzy things because lulzy things; conceived by me and Mimon aka Kuroi Onee-san aka metalfragaria.

She had long believed that lust was a certain derivative of hunger; it must had been the same for him. Factually speaking, there were a lot of similarities between the sensations and the process of satiating them in a number of regards—the smell and idea of something stimulating the production of a certain liquid, something filling up one of the body cavities, and several more points she wouldn’t bother to jot down even if she had some time to spare (which was a virtually impossible instance).

The way she saw it, she didn’t have the luxury of considering the looming consequences at the time they first did it. Naturally, neither did he. All Maki could remember from the accident was the door of her office ridiculously unlocked, white robes conveniently placed somewhere she couldn’t see, her poor desk, what felt like fatigue and most of all frustration weighing down on her back, the moon in the distance looking away from them in shame, and Nurse Nozomi’s undeniably vexing glance travelling towards the way she walked the day after. On the same day, she had heard the gossips of her coworkers on the topic of how the oh-so-perfect cardiothoracic surgeon had been participating in less operations than usual, and she rightfully snickered at that.

No words had been exchanged between the two of them except those of medical vocabulary or tired daily formalities in the following days, until she was ready to let thoughts of other importances wash the memory away, but six days after that night, the tragedy repeated itself—except it no longer come across as that much of a tragedy to her. The day was through. Her office had no choice but to become their crime scene once again (she felt really sorry for her desk _and_ swivel chair) and their white robes must have had agreed to some secret pact because they always went out somewhere whenever she and the bastard did the thing.

It had all became so normal. With each thrust her hip would reenact the movement of the fingers of a violinist on _vibrato_ and with each squeeze her thoughts would burst into the ceiling, leaving only dopamine-filled body and what she liked to think as the last bits of her dignity. The thing went on and on until it became a monthly—weekly— _anything_ routine and each practice would give her pleasure; just enough to make her not miss the warmth of human body with which she used to come into contact quite often in her much younger days. Maki wasn’t supposed to feel anything else. Of course, the same applied to him.

It was only recently that she started to feel something else.

When all Maki could remember from what happened two hours ago was his scent permeating from the sheet beneath and his ocean locks saturating her flaring ones and his bridge of nose sneaking behind her ears and his eyelashes kissing hers and his heart listening to hers and his sigh caressing the interior of her thighs and _and_ even the color of his eyes (she had been wrong to think that the moon had refused to look at her ever again). She didn’t want him to remember how smoothly her fingers glided on his right cheek until they traced the curve of his ear before yanking him down to crash their lips together and the warm welcome for his salty fingertips from her mouth and her voice chanting his name in _forte_ and her palm embracing that thing—in other words, pretty much everything.

There was some kind of thing imbued in their touches now and it felt so unsettling, so foolish, so... wrong.

But not unfamiliar.

It was the 25th of December.

She had a schedule for surgery tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. And another day after.

“Hey,” she began, her voice comfortably bereft of any tune, “we should stop doing this.”

He was on the other side of the room, sitting on a chair with a can of cheap beer—why just now?—on a hand. If her memory was still one thing she could count on, he was the one who had hung their garments on the hanger beside the chair just before they had sex. She hated having to be dependent on him. She never wanted to be dependent on him. Everyone. Anyone.

“Yes. I think we should.”

Of course. His reply came almost immediately, so resolute that she had no qualms in conjuring up a brittle smile, “You’re such a cruel man.”

Sonoda Umiyoshi contemplated for a second, his unbuttoned shirt revealing the red smears of her lipstick on the nape of his neck yet his expression revealing nothing, “Perhaps ‘kind’ is the word that you’re looking for.”

“A man who’s kind to everyone is a cruel man, you know.”

There was a short pause.

“I never have any intention of being kind to everyone.”

Before she realized, Maki had hummed a song inside her head. Rachmaninoff’s _Vocalise_ , Op. 34 No. 14—one of her favorites. The method had always worked perfectly at times in which she wanted to free her mind from any kind of disturbing thoughts; to return her to the days when she could see stars in _her_ sky and hear echoes of _her_ piano in her dreams—the much simpler times. Rising from his bed, she approached the man sitting a few feet in front of her before snatching the can of beer away from his hand. The liquid went down and down her throat until the empty metal container dropped with a thud onto the table behind him. She didn’t become drunk. Why wouldn’t she become drunk.

Sonoda Umiyoshi rested his gaze on her, and in that milisecond she had either wished he would rise from his chair and his lips would brush against the rim of her ear making her forget all songs or he would depart to wherever she could never reach. Both meant the same.

“I see,” she spoke, the terrible taste lingering on her throat rendering her voice hoarse, “Umiyoshi-sensei.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. I don't even.
> 
> The 'lips brushing against the rim of ear and forgeting all songs' is from the lyrics of Epitone Project and Lucia's "Will You be Like A Flower, Loving Me Only a Season?". Great song.


End file.
